


of all the things, the most

by moon_hedgehog



Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic), The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Abusive Relationships, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, a bunch of dark aus, all trigger warnings in the notes, smth for Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-12-28 12:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21136445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: it is a monstrous love and it makes monsters of us all.





	1. guns

**Author's Note:**

> some of these are old, some are new, and some were edited a lot before posting.  
various trigger warnings such as blood, self-harm, <s>knifeplay</s>, deaths, branding, torture, and well, heed the tags, extremely abusive relationships.  
enjoy ♡
> 
> summary is a quote from [crimson peak](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2554274/).

_How old is this guy, really?_

In front of Henry's nose dances a veil of hookah smoke – sickeningly sweet, it rolls into rings and spirals, disappearing up the ceiling. From somewhere on the side flows muffled music. To determine is it classical or no would be absurd, and therefore Henry gives up on the first try. His throat would really need a glass of pure water with ice right now. All that can be offered here is shitty whiskey with cigarette ash settled on the bottom of a glass; from one sight of such drink, almost affably drawn out by a drunk, dark-skinned man, Henry starts feeling ill. Worse at least.

“Get off him.”

Spirit's voice is low and hoarse – but he wasn't smoking and it's understandable by his lively, bright eyes, running over every corner of Henry's body. It's impossible to hide from this gaze, as well as from its owner, and so all that remains is to press lips and try hard not to stare back. Henry's doing badly. Henry's doing badly because he's tired and he's curious, damn it, and generally, you cannot just not to stare at the eyes of _that _color, especially when they're staring at you. Spirit is annoyed – or amused, but it can't be clear – because the next second he jumps up from a torn chair, which serves as an improvised throne, and grabs Henry by his wrist, and it hurts. Henry swallows a half-sob almost getting out of his throat, swallows all words that are ready to slip from his tongue, almost swallows the tongue itself; he's led over the edge of the building, pushed to red brick with shoulderblades, forced to inhale hot Italian air.

Spirit trails a thin finger over his chin.

“I like you. Stay.”

✞

When chaotic drops of scarlet paint the ceiling, Henry doesn't think this is wrong. He doesn't think he can become next (_he can_), and doesn't think the one who's already become was unworthy of it. He inhales a heavy smell of metal and makes a careful step towards his lover. The blood on him looks particularly aesthetic – lines flowing down the pale neck and cheekbones, it seeps under Spirit's t-shirt with small spots. However, Henry hasn't called him that long ago. For him, the one who is named a new serial killer is simply Edward. A skinny guy with a mop of wheaten hair and bright emerald eyes; rude, stubborn and infantile romantic. Weird. Or so most people would christen him. For Henry, he's a burning house. Red-hot kisses and wrists pinned to wet sheets. Marking bites in the collarbone, lazy chuckles, and the smell of freedom in the night air. He doesn't know what's happened to his own law-abiding and mother's advice and “what a good boy”.

He only knows that for Edward Hyde – a young boy of twenty-two years – he's ready to catch a bullet. Even if from Edward himself.


	2. stained glass

Hyde is furious. Henry notices this with the corner of his eye – his shrouded with veil face, disheveled hair, and hidden hands. Edward casts him a peremptory glance before unnoticeably hiding upstairs. To refuse and not go is to feel the whole palette of green-eyed demon's anger. That's why Henry tolerates the situation (tolerates _himself_), smiles at the guests, and quietly apologizes. He'll be away for only a few minutes, they won't even notice his absence while consuming snacks and drinks, and Lanyon (who's throwing his friend worried peeks) will make them a wonderful company. That's how he calms the Misters and Missis, that's how he calms himself.

That's how he calms himself until his hands are wrung up, until he's pinned to the wall. Until the sticky and still hot blood from Edward Hyde's fingers doesn't draw intricate weaves on his chin, until the demon of London's night doesn't bite in his shoulders with sharp teeth, until Henry doesn't start to whine and stops thinking.

Hyde likes to take him, Hyde loves to paint him.

✞

It would seem that everything is so simple – to get rid of someone or something isn't really difficult. But Henry – this poor, lost boy – is addicted. He's addicted to the taste of his own blood when his lips are bitten through, his will defeated and suppressed. He's addicted to rough hands, rigidly shoving him on tables, walls, and beds (wherever their owner pleases), giving both caress and pain. He's addicted to sharp and torn thrusts inside, making him choke with pleasure and tears. He's addicted to the feeling of complete, absolute helplessness – and this feeling appears only beside Edward Hyde.

✞

When Hyde is in a good mood, he's gentle (almost to drunken smears with lips over the neck, to quiet purr in the ear). Henry knows – it's like a short respite, enjoy while you still can, soon the storm will begin again. It's not possible to escape from it nor to hide, just curl up in a ball, praying to all known and unknown gods for not being hooked. Henry's always hooked.

When Edward is in a bad mood, he takes him wherever and whenever he wants, like a thing, a dog. He's a boss and a dominant. Twists his hands, bites his body, hisses, and rapes as he needs. But even like this, the green-eyed demon just frolics, half-heartedly, like a child. Henry is his favorite toy, Henry implicitly bears all the whims of his master. For this, he's broken and repaired, broken and repaired, broken-

The real pain begins when Edward Hyde is angry. When in his mad eyes burns a flame of hatred, when he trembles with overflowing energy, when his hands, his lips, and everything in him gives nothing but pain. Then Henry cries. Then he crawls away, runs away, asks, begs, and ceaselessly, bitterly cries. All these things, all that he does enrages Hyde even more. 'Cause he always stops, he always finds, he doesn't care about pleading, and he hates to see his toy weak and miserable. Therefore, he beats, bites, cuts and breaks it into small chips.

Only for the next day to glue back together.

✞

“What are you doing?”

Henry looks at Hyde with a colorless gaze. He's terribly, damnly tired. Yesterday he cried (again), and was beaten (again). Today it's raining. Ironically, Henry would have thought had he had the strength to think.

“Drawing...” Edward takes his eyes off the piece of paper and looks at his toy without blinking. Henry no longer knows will he be punished for this, but his neck terribly pains and there is no power to look away. So he continues to stare at the demon in his armchair, who's holding a kind of easel on his knees and a simple pencil in his hand.

“… you,” Hyde says after a pause. Then turns away and proceeds to work.

Outside the window drum drops, falling on the rooftops and pavements; and Henry almost utters three stupid and senseless words, but bites his tongue in time.

**~**

It's like running around in circles, like a new intoxicating sip after a long withdrawal, like a reason to feel alive. It's an insane wildfire – it burns everything inside, every damn nerve under the skin, every vein, every interlacing of arteries. It burns everything outside, fluttering eyelashes and frozen tears, fingernails and covered with dried blood clothes.

Henry's shaking, but he whispers “please-trust-me-im-fine-really” and Lanyon has terror in his eyes but knows that help is useless to offer.

✞

Henry hasn't been fine for so long, but he bites his wrists and forgets when has it all started. By some tiny part of consciousness, he understands that it's all wrong, that it's all crazy, it all must cease. When he holes up in the darkest and farthest corners of the house, then in his head only nonstop _help-icantlikethat-idontwantit-someone-please-helpme_. And sometimes even _lord-whathaveibecome-why-do-ineedit-nonononono_. Then he's found and dragged into the light by the scruff, and there's no time for thinking, it's only left for screaming.

✞

And when his throat is completely ripped and the powers remain only to whine, Henry closes his eyes and imagines stained glass. It's woven of the sun, so majestic and warm, it's even strange. It looks at him, and he looks at it – there is no sense in pretending, all the masks are torn off. He can cut his hands with a myriad of fragments, but it's all in his head. So it makes no sense.

Sometimes it's very difficult to keep the stained glass in mind because it's too hot.

✞

Edward's had too much pain in his life, he smothers the suns one by one. He still loves me – thinks Henry, not noticing his blunt stubbornness. Edward's hands are always in blood, he spoils everything he touches. And I love him – thinks Henry and it's already bitter, cause crystal true. Edward has a cruel grin on his lips and something not from a night demon but from a broken violin in his eyes. It's all madness – thinks Henry as his shaking fingertips pick up the shard of glass from the floor.

✞

Then there's only blood and darkness, but it doesn't worry him anymore.


	3. worlds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>yes this is jekyde too</s>

I guess I wasn’t born for poetry.

Here I stay: knuckles are bleeding with wars I’ve fought; teeth gnashing with pieces of sand and dirt; fingers trembling of all the glass that’s been piercing them. A ghost of old streets, smoke fills my lungs to the very core of existence, leaving me to vomit on cream-colored sheets; when I stare at all this ink and undigested bones I can only see words of my mother:

> “You are a beast that should have been caged”.

So maybe I am. That’s a parasite deep inside my nerve system, and every night it eats all the little arteries and cells of my body. These little alleys of damned city please it to excited tickling under the skin of my wrists, so I wander around with a cigarette in my mouth and a knife in my pocket. Children of smog god exist behind, their eyes wide in horror when I approach. I don’t need their lives, but they’re all afraid of me. You – aren’t.

The day I met You was the day of my destruction. In Your smile there’s too much light that burnt black worms out of my ribcage. In Your eyes hides **the world**, emerald galaxies and rage of forming stars. I feel myself a mess of black blood, cracked nails, and damaged fists – yet You always sit beside, no less beautiful than myriads of stained glass fragments. Your lips are too soft for ripped edges of mine; we are not compatible, I repeat four hundred fifty times a day. I don’t see it somehow bothering You. The next day I lose in a fight and spit on the asphalt; You come and try to kiss away my sorrows, but I pin Your hands to the nearby wall and hurt You; and lose myself short after. My knees are so weak when I beg for forgiveness, still feeling Your light fingers in my hair. Any of that mumbling is not necessary.

You don’t ask, bandaging your name written all over my body with a sharp razor and old blood. I don’t know how to handle You.

So I guess I wasn’t born for poetry that is

Your hands.


	4. knives

Edward always leaves. Doesn't give a farewell kiss, doesn't say anything – just gets up, dresses and leaves. This silence _presses Henry to bed and tears off his clothes, rudely penetrates wherever it can reach, he wants to scream, but_ what will then be with him? He has long forgotten who needs him and who doesn't, has there ever been anything other than the emerald eyes opposite? All this has lost its meaning, Lord help him.

✞

He kneels in front of him and hands a knife – small but sharp, with such cooks cut slices of meat, with such smear bread in honey, with such also _cut veins, but only if Edward has mercy today and fucks him with this knife to exhaustion, to the point when Henry won't be able to howl anymore, and then_ he'll fall asleep before the blond disappears in London fog. This mechanism fails sometimes, but it's practically the only thing left. Valerian makes him vomit black.

✞

Sometimes it rains outside the window, Henry waits endlessly, swaying in a chair, but no one comes, absolutely, utterly no one. He's alone in a huge-huge house, servants have run who-where, hands start to shake about one o'clock at night, he already begs about two, _please just come to me, I'll be obedient, I'll give everything to you, I'll give my life, I I I, I want to feel you, don't leave_, but no one hears him. In the morning, he notices that he almost scratched out his eyes.

✞

Henry breaks down and sobs, curled up in a ball, bites and licks his wrists, rips the skin from his lips to blood, covers his ears with hands. Edward sits in a chair opposite, in his hands a glass of wine _or is it blood from his nose, fragmented finger joints, milk-salty seed and he drinks it like drinks him every day_ to the bottom. Tongue to throat, all pleads with a hoarse wheeze. The madman doesn't care.

✞

Henry no longer has any words or tears – the world goes inflamed stains until he's laid onto the bedsheets. Now it's so easy to _use his weakness and turn him inside out, make him crawl on his knees, fuck like a stupid whore, break like a cheap statue_, but no one does this. Wet tracks on his cheeks are kissed, a tart taste of caramel left. Fingers get tangled in his hair, running through curly strands. The timbre of this voice is cold and indifferent, though:  
“I'll stay.”


	5. violin

When Edward Hyde opened his eyes for the first time, he felt only pain. Pain was everywhere, it penetrated every muscle, flowing through veins like poisonous honey, dripping out of half-closed eyelids with marsh tears. He curled up in a ball on the cold floor, waiting for the burning waves to pass – he didn't know how to scream yet, just cried silently. But after a few minutes, there was silence, thick and sticky, replacing pain with an unpleasant numbness. It was better.

Edward froze, listening to himself and his own sensations, not knowing what to do. What was he? And what had he become? Hot blood pulsed in his ears, tiny clouds of breath escaped his mouth – he was alive, but he didn't feel as such. There were heard light footsteps from behind, and a second later a hot hand fell on his shoulder. Edward timidly looked up – someone familiar was sitting next to him, and yet terribly, horrendously distant. But the stranger smiled and Edward _liked that_.

✞

Henry Jekyll, that was his name, taught his creation everything he knew and learned himself. He showed how to mix salt with sulfur, taught to hold a pen in hands and write symbols on a piece of paper, made him read and disassemble tons of very different literature. Edward Hyde had a headache, but seeing a happy smile on the face of his creator, he continued to study unknown letters painstakingly. At night, he sat by the window with a candle, looking out into the streets with curiosity and breathing in dark and tart air. Deep down he felt that his place was there. That light steps on tiled roofs could become his steps, the clatter of a cane on a dirty pavement could belong to him, and a black cloak freely fluttering on the wind could be his. Then Henry was coming in – quietly asking why Edward was still awake and gently ruffling his hair. And Edward surely succumbed, wandering into his bed – because the world seemed too scary, and Henry was the only one who could protect him.

✞

Once the call of the streets became irresistible – and Edward dressed in his new clothes and jumped out of the window, gently landing on the asphalt. Then he wandered around London for long, inhaling heat and exhaling quiet laugh. The city was filled with very different, wonderful people – tattered boys, pretty little girls, ladies hurrying home, and honorable gentlemen. When Edward turned the corner, chasing silence from the noise pressing his head; a red-haired woman swam out to meet him, grinning broadly and slyly. Something in her was wrong, something in her was not from those lovely, well-groomed young maidens with lace parasols and magnificent dresses. Edward was _scared_.

He disappeared faster than expected of himself. Henry explained that there is a _heart_ in his chest – now this heart was beating like a frightened little sparrow. But the night had just begun, and it was too easy to give up, and therefore Edward returned home only to the middle of it, carrying some acquired violin with a bow in his hands.

London was still a cold and inhospitable place – and his home greeted with warmth and comfort. Apart from a heavy, judgmental gaze of Henry. Edward cringed, but his creator shook his head wearily and muttered that he was worrying too much. Having fallen on the violin, his glance became interested, a slight half-smile starting playing on his lips again – it was more than Edward could ask for, although of course, nobody taught him to pray.

✞

Edward Hyde had high lacquered boots, a silk black cloak, and elegant gloves fringed around the edges. Edward had thousands of cylinders with ribbons and brooches of different colors and shapes; he had night pajamas. Edward had his own room, a table for experiments, and heavy curtains of green velvet. Edward had hundreds of books, old and new, of science and alchemy; and he had a violin, beautiful and subtle, playing magnificent melodies at the behest of the bow in his hand. Edward had night walks, the first taste of alcohol on the tongue, merging into cacophony melodies. Edward had bloody knuckles that were carefully bandaged every day; he had light touches to his hair. Edward had it all.

And Henry Jekyll had Robert Lanyon and hurried kisses between meetings and farewells, and merry laughter by the fireplace, and greedy moans until half-forgetting.

And to be honest, Edward didn't have just what he wanted most.

✞

Now Edward knew – these women were called _prostitutes_. Henry dropped a few hurried words about them, answering one of the endless questions of his creation. Without disgust or admiration – simply with cold indifference, as if talking about Elizabeth Tower or something like that. But Edward's curiosity didn't subside on this, and the next evening he stood at the threshold of one of the entertainment establishments, awkwardly stumbling around the entrance. It was a dirty and overcast area of London where danger suspended the air; moreover, Henry didn't know about this outing, and it incredibly disturbed Edward. But it was too late to go back. The brothel met Mr. in a black cloak with a stifling smell of spices mixed with sweat and cheap beer. Loud music hung inside, motley sparks cast light on the walls, thin-legged night butterflies bent and danced on stage – and soon enough, Edward got a headache. He'd been hiding in the farthest corner, rubbing his temples and frowning at his fingers – just until the moment when one of the fallen girls slid closer like an imperceptible shadow.

“Why are you here then?”

His blank glance was met with a faint grin.

“Sometimes people come here when they don't feel loved. Sometimes for a miserable carnal pleasure. But you don't look like the latter, and you're too calm for the first. So why are you here?”

Edward didn't answer immediately, because he couldn't concentrate on thoughts dancing in his head.

“I… don't feel loved?”

“I asked first,” the girl smiled again. “Do you?”

✞

Her name was Lucy. Her voice was soft like of a young, innocent fawn or a tiny warbler bird that woke Edward early mornings. She looked like him, and she was too fragile for the place she worked in. He came to her often, excommunicating himself in an old brothel at every convenient opportunity. She paid him with tales of her imagination; advice from a life that wasn't favoring her. She told and showed him what is love; she was the one who convinced him that love without body craving is impossible.

She was broken only, since childhood, with her false guidelines and beliefs. And he wasn't taught not to trust everything people say.

_So one evening he asked Henry Jekyll:_

“_Do you love me?”_

“_Of course,” he laughed. He laughed, but turned away and left him alone._

✞

Edward had a violin, but he _hated_ it. The National London Theater was great, but now it's on _fire_ (Edward remembers he was once there, being introduced to Robert Lanyon, and at first glance he realized that-)

Edward had brooches and books but was left with _nothing_. Lucy was kind, but she died of _cruelty_ (Edward remembers asking for a decent grave for her, but then being taken away as guilty of anything-)

Edward had something or Edward had everything, but never what he _needed_. And once Henry was very happy, but now the love of his love, along with the accursed theater, had _burned down_ (Henry remembers that he was warned too late and he just didn't have time, didn't have time, because someone-)

Edward had compassion, and time, and innocence, but he _burned_ it all. And Henry once, really, possibly but hardly ever _loved_ him (Henry remembers, he understood whose fault it was in a split second, and told his creation that he leaves his life and freedom, but doesn't want to see him ever again and-)

Edward left.


	6. woods

Edward wandered here for so long that he'd lost track of time. And yet this time was too short to lose cautiousness acquired over the years. Or better to say fearfulness? At every slightest rustle, his head twitched to the side, hands pressing tightly to chest. No, not the stance of attack, rather – defense. Desperate defense, insecure. Broken in a thousand unsuccessful attempts to get out of a place that seemed to follow him on heels.

✞

The trick is not to breathe. Freeze, cringing on the ground like a dirty ball; count cold floor tiles under fingers; bite tongue and not allow yourself liberties. But all the same, the trick is not to breathe, because if you inhale – once again will ghost tender hands, bandaging wounds, and gentle kisses to the corners of lips. If you breathe, then everything that's happening now becomes too unbearable – the very hands that used to give love now roughly intercept, pinch, beat; and those very lips are bitten to blood; to bruises, spreading under thinned with paleness skin. If you breathe – it's no longer possible not to shout.

✞

Robert was the one who found him. Spun-whirled like a worried squirrel, carried into the house and put in order. Gold danced in his eyes, and for the first time, Edward reached for his face. But when their mouths touched, he recoiled, awkwardly pulling the end of his sleeve and hiding his face. Of course, his savior didn't understand – he would never – but prepared Edward a bed, a dinner, and a warm fireplace. Smiled. Intertwined their fingers. Said something banal, something like “everything will be fine”. Edward really wanted to, but couldn't afford to believe.

✞

“Stop raping me” - stands in his throat. He wakes up with this thought every morning, spends with it every day, and takes it to bed for the night. Sometimes this thought gives way to choking “You're killing me” and a quiet “I loved you”, but in the real world there's possible to carry out only one thing – howl. And – tears, but pure howl in his life still more. When it gets to the pharynx and everything becomes banally who-cares, Edward tries to escape. To get out of the dungeon of his own house – steals money, rakes clothes, comes up with a new name. In the evening he's returned home with apologizing “I will never do that again”, the next morning he gets hurt anew. When one time an ugly, scorched with rod mark appears on his body, he realizes that there's no point fighting anymore.

Edward Hyde is now owned by Henry Jekyll.

✞

He could hide in this place all he wanted and never find it annoying. A small cabin by a dense forest and a clear lake – what could be more beautiful? Robert seemed to be thinking the same way – every three days he traveled to the nearest village for supplies, and always brought a fragrant bouquet of flowers, which were immediately finding a place on their kitchen table. He also bought a lot of books, and often found Edward in the library – disheveled and with ridiculous glasses on the bridge of his nose, reading out another ladies' novel. The rest here was disturbed only by birds who built their nest on their roof and awoke with early rays of the sun.

Yes, he could hide in this place all he wanted. And it wasn't necessary to return to the real world. Or remember that Robert Lanyon is long gone.


	7. chandeliers

Edward's pride surely has remained – neither buckets of ice-cold water nor whips, not even injections of concentrated poison created on the basis of Dreamcatcher's drug: none of these helped to kill it. He howled and threw up into the marble whiteness of a bath first time (then was lifted and lulled by strong hands); he was breaking out the belts of a seat the second, falling under the feet of his tormentor and praying for mercy (then was injected a sedative and lulled once more). A few days after, his pride, however, returned again. Along with it the ability to snap, frown and _hat__e _– to red spots in front of eyes, to a whirlwind of a beating heart in the chest.

Maybe that's why he's getting broken carefully and piece by piece, that's why he's never forgotten to being glued back at the end. Edward is prideful and stubborn. That is why Jekyll likes him.

✞

Who cares what's his name. Jekyll owns some kind of illegal business - so commonplace for these times - money and people who are afraid of him. The latter are numerous. Among the latter are, of course, Dreamcatchers, among whom awkwardly lurks Edward; although he himself would never admit he's afraid.

Electricity in his veins boils at the sight of a styled haircut of deep brown hair and dark pomegranate eyes, too dangerous to look at for long. Too full, too empty at the same time.

Jekyll likes to take him rudely. Especially in those short periods after another torture when Edward is still too weak to break free, but strong enough to _hate_. Jekyll likes to bite his shoulder, leaving red marks of his teeth, commandingly ruffle his blond and tangled hair, push deep and fast, not allowing to catch a single breath of air. Jekyll likes to see him crushed; (Edward also knows, secretly, that Jekyll likes to see his smile, but hides it even from himself).

Jekyll has information on a huge number of people and that's why, Edward reassures himself, he has not yet killed him. That little group of Dreamcatchers that's trying to survive under the guidance of his friend needs as much help as possible. They need Edward to stay in the game for as long as he can. Edward stays in the game only if he's fucked; he stays in the game only if he's tortured.

✞

“What are you doing to me?” Jekyll whispers during some stupid ball and no less stupid dance for the sake of which Edward had to change his appearance to a female one and fasten long pearl beads.

Then, already in their (their?) house, he catches them on Edward and pulls to himself, almost strangling him; and Edward coughs, of course, but still comes forward to face a rough kiss. He's already himself again, although still feels vile, and even more vile from deceptively affectionate touches.

Jekyll doesn't love him, that much is true – well, or at least that can't be called love – but still looks with adoration every single time, and draws closer in the middle of dark nights, and kisses softly on the neck. Then Edward makes a mistake and gets punished again; only the pain is given by strangers' hands, and those that caress afterward are Jekyll's. He is such a looped egoist, such a moral freak that it'd be probably too easy to toy him around – sometimes Edward thinks bitterly, cursing his own pride.

“I'll kill you,” he whispers in response to the tormentor-lover and moans shamelessly under his touch.

Electricity in his veins seethes and sings and demands an exit, blowing up the lamps of fake diamond chandeliers above their heads.


	8. silk & cinnamon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like my favorite au on earth not gonna lie.

Henry has been very very lucky.

A cherry in his liquor floats on the surface, jolted by boiling bubbles; from rhythmically-dangerous, music gets replaced by lazy-velvety, wrapping around bar chairs. His act has just ended, new and new – sharp-faced, frilly, dolled – dancers run out onto the center stage of one of the most expensive strip clubs of the city, long stiletto heels glitter in neon silver. None of them will ever compare to him; yes, maybe in a couple of years I'll be shining brighter – they soothe themselves in stifling dressing rooms, biting their lips in the color of chateau lipstick; but in a couple of years is awfully-awfully long and not even worth a bit of attention. Henry fought for his place under the sun. Henry is not interested in those who stayed below.

Henry has slender legs and swinging hips; he is paid for dancing, the ability to show an ostensible interest, escort and work with his mouth. Or – cock. Or for spreading legs wide, which for content with their life, potbellied men whom tongue won't turn to call “businessmen”, always results in a large sum. They don't complain. They are sacredly sure that in their clutches fell an elite bird, incomparable to dirt-winged butterflies; they shower it with gold and diamonds, money-money-money and petals of tasteless red roses. The bird has a good agent, a sense of self-preservation, and a talent to make anyone who looks at its feathers dizzy. And funds that help to buy a new Chanel bag every month, visit spas, and pay for sister's education in one of those high society colleges. Rotten – whisper behind his back. Rotten trough – poke needles in laughable dolls.

✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧

Henry has been very very lucky.

For the first time, he begins to doubt this when a new visitor of the club doesn't even give him a half-glance, preferring a bar counter and a glass of martini. Not for the first time – when upon an attempt to start a conversation, this same visitor measures him with mocking eyes from under half-closed, long eyelashes, and disappears. Henry gets lost because no one has ever dismissed him like that, obviously and rudely, without “sorry bye”. Therefore, at the next dropped opportunity, he doesn't lag after the visitor. Puts number one in a list “to win” (sometimes changing the name on “to seduce”); waits almost at the door, staggering aimlessly until his arrival. Makes steps forward. Starts a conversation. Jitters like a first-grader. Gets to know the name.

Hyde. Edward Hyde.

Mr. Hyde has torn jeans and cheap sunglasses; he doesn't look like he can _afford_ Henry but doesn't look like he came here for this. He doesn't flirt with girls and boys sticking to him like bees to fresh flowers, never invites friends, and orders only one glass of alcohol, preferring to spend the rest of the night in idle standing in a corner. He doesn't single Henry out, doesn't play with Henry, doesn't _glorify_ Henry. It _annoys_. Jekyll wants to see in those deep emerald eyes at least something remotely similar to lust, desire, interest, anything. All he gets are sarcastic smiles and two-three quiet words. So when Henry realizes he's drowned in this new visitor, all the lifeboats go under water with him.

✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧

Henry has been very very lucky.

The wind tickles his skin, crawling undershirt when he and Edward rush through the night streets on a motorcycle; and this is life. In a small apartment of his almost-lover, he whistles some silly melody inhaling specks of dust floating in the air and giggling into them. Falls on the edge of a bed, wrinkling sheets with hands, licking his lower lip. A little bit, slightly, foolishly enjoys;

and then everything rolls to hell.

Henry doesn't have time to notice that his hands are tightly tied with a belt, wrung up; doesn't have time to understand why sharp teeth sink into his shoulder; and certainly doesn't have time to realize when a mocking tenderness is replaced by running through bones _cold_. He looks up at Edward – but Edward remains Edward, he hasn't changed, hasn't turned a wolf under the guise of a pious fox, and hasn't shown his claws. Henry put himself in this trap alone. Painted, filled in the blanks, teased, _fell in love_; all that remains is to bite lips to streams of blood flowing down the chin and endure baring nerves pain and panic rising to the throat. Not for the first time. He'll survive this.

✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧

I'm very-very lucky – Henry repeats to himself until there is no longer enough strength for this repetition; it only remains for crying.

**~**

  
Edward licks his wounds and leaves him for the night (_doesn't apologize_). Henry wakes up with the first rays of the sun and quietly slips out of his apartment (_doesn't cause scenes_). Seems like yes, everything has happened, idiot's dream came true – live on and drink fruit cocktails on the laps of another moneybag, wishing to die in the depths of your soul. Forget and forgotten be. Don't answer the questions of the club's owner about why do you look so withered and honestly beg off. Wash away the pain under a horribly hot shower; throw up in a white sink in the shape of a shell; cry. Start a new day.

These things go one after another like on autopilot, the red cross is put just opposite “forget” - and Henry huddles in corners, refusing to become the star of the scene again, spending pocket money on drinks. Something gradually breaks inside him; it's not scary since his heart was taught to hide behind seven seals, but hurts almost like the first time, at eighteen, in a dark dirty alley. That same visitor no longer comes here and this is probably good. He is the one who's been lucky, the most profitable whore of the club, and therefore no one messes with him – and this must be even better. The building itself buys some rich man which means the authority will change, and change, whatever one may say, is just wonderful. Everything is getting better because there is no other way out, Henry listens to his sister's voice on the phone, buys designer clothes – and then understands how terribly, disastrously he's in love with Edward Hyde.

Approximately then – a second-two before – when catches a glimpse of him in a shop window. And then on a street. And then in his own club, where he, dressed in a suit and a Swiss watch, not so nicely chatters with the former owner. He looks as expensive as Henry - no matter what - will never feel himself. And Henry feels cheated. Betrayed. Trampled. And very-very dirty.

He hides in the room with golden, sham cages, and this is symbolic. Though he's found here, too. Henry backs down, clinging to furniture with fingers and feeling heart bursting from his chest; he'd wish to run away now, where no one can touch and add another crack on his fragile porcelain skin. But Edward doesn't approach. He doesn't tread on, he's not a wolf and in no need to circle around his prey. He's the Devil, and colors are lost in the shadows following him, flowers fade and facets get distorted, lying flat under his feet in lacquered shoes.

Henry knows what he'll be told. Henry is a smart boy, and smart boys understand when their tricks come to an end and they are to make deals to keep their own. Therefore he sells himself, price high and for a year – in exchange getting the opportunity to dance and attract greedy looks, but losing all freedom and surrendering to the whim of his customer. A disguised player with torn jeans and cunning eyes. A liar who promises love that never gives. One whose face glows on the country's tabloids as the face of the new CEO of a large company. But it's nothing. Henry will survive this.

✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧

The key to his cage, Henry throws away voluntarily under kisses on the neck, while breaking wings on the bars in blind agony.


	9. poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it could be tentacle porn, but i was too lazy  
and yeah it's based on the cover of chapter 8

“Wanna play?”

Jekyll winces, blindly reaches for a bowtie and pulls down, loosening its grip. It doesn't help – and soon comes the realization that it is ghostly fingers that strangle his neck, so correctly and gently pressing on pulsating veins.

He stands in a crowd of aristocrats and groomed ladies – and he chokes on air.

“What are you doing?” he breathes out a question to a question, out of the corner of an eye noticing scarlet fog creeping out from under the shadow of stairs. It is followed by blood, pouring onto the cleanest marble floor, champing under heels and shimmering with faces of people reflected in it. The face of a single lady swims in its shape for a moment, skin and flesh flowing to the floor, exposing the bones of a skull. Jekyll blinks – it's disappeared – turns away and almost breaks into a groan. Almost – because he very well knows this is only a game of his sick imagination, a game released by his own potion. His creation. Himself.

“Oh, darling,” purrs His Potion, running long, forked tongue around the edge of his ear, giggling and calming and taking pleasure in his crazy manner. “You're so pathetic. Look,” one of his hands glides forward, fingers on doctor's neck up to the Adam's apple and on the tip of his chin, clasping, guiding. Pointing the way. Jekyll doesn't resist – he has not slept for three days, interrupting on brief oblivion between raging nightmares full of decaying dogs, vomiting blood people, and thousands of visions of his own death. Opening his eyes, he asks – am I still alive? And then everything repeats all over again.

Someday he will surely die. At least from malnutrition.

“Have you ever thought what these people see?” the Snake whispers in his hair, and Henry shudders, for warm breath caresses his skin. This is the only warm in this place – otherwise, the whole world seemed to have frozen in an endless, steel and cold photo film; as if an invisible observer tirelessly clicks a camera, one – flash, two – flash, three – flash. Jekyll's head begins to hurt. “These people see a wrapper, a really pretty one – have I ever told you you're pretty? - and it caresses their eyes with its whiteness and refinement. A little doll on the forehead of which written 'decency and virtue'. Savior of the oppressed – remember that wolf-boy? - defender of the widowed. What do you think...” He licks his lips and Henry thrills. “Are you really like that, sweetheart?”

Someone's champagne glass deafeningly shatters on the floor. Blood wave licks Jekyll's heels and foams, pleased.

He swallows.

“Yes.”

Lies. And the spirit of London at night doesn't like when he's lied to – Henry knows this very well, it is swept through his head like a flash of lightning, a lonely thought and immediate remorse. After lightning follows pain. He hastily covers his eyes with a hand and takes a few steps back – viscous, lost in the ringing of broken glass steps; falling into red water, painfully long steps. Tears from his eyes drip at their own will – the doctor crushes a tearing sob and whispers, whispers, whispers:

“Stop please.”

Fingers, hands on his neck disappear – for some reason, it's even more painful from this, as if the touch of the Potion protects from what follows after; protects from the whole world in a perverse, toxic manner. Now there is only Henry Jekyll and pain, and distant voices of merry people, and blood splashing underfoot.

He doesn't stop.

And Henry vainly tries not to bend in half, questioning how long will it take for his eardrums to burst, for every vein in his body to tear from howling pain.

“Are you really like that?” Original Sin is standing in front of him, and he is his purest reflection, right down to styled brown hair, right down to suit, red with a buttonhole. Just different eyes. Astounding.

The question beats over his consciousness like a bell, and the faces around mix in a stretched, champing, oscillating mess, and Jekyll leans on a marble column – or on a foot of a giant skinned monster – in search of support. _I-can't-anymore_ rises in his throat with a fit of nausea, damn that day when he pushed his creation away in fear and received weeks of endless terror. Spirit turned out to be revengeful. Spirits always turn out to be revengeful.

“No.” First with head and then with tongue he answers, looking up onto the ceiling that's disappeared behind the streams of blood.

The answer is right.

“No,” the Snake draws, taking a step toward him. “You are not like that. You know it the same way I do. And I know you very well, sweetheart.” He smiles like a predator, finally driving the wounded prey into a corner, and Henry really feels like that. But the pain gradually subsides, red leaks and leaks, more air appears in his lungs. He looks up at his exact copy. He's tired. And very ashamed to admit his thoughts. “You're small.” Step forward. “Cowardly.” Another step. “You're so shaking about your high position in society that you're ready to sell yourself.” A smirk makes its way to the bones. “And you already did. To me.”

Henry looks away.

Transparent fingers play with the buttons of his jacket, and the world around him gets brighter and more vibrant with each second, but now it doesn't matter.

“Remember our first time?” he purrs again and it's unbearable. “Oh, you practically begged me to take you. Poor little boy… who thought Lanyon needed him.”

Jekyll wants to scream, but just mutters something under his breath – it's stupid, it can anger the spirit again, but this time only amuses.

“I helped you. To get rid of thoughts. And was helping you many, many more times.” The Tempter runs a finger along his cheek so gently that Henry catches himself on the thought he would give everything to be touched only this way. But this is stupid, too. Unrealizable. “When you were alone. When the whole world was against you. When you were angry. When you cried. When you were broken and I was putting your pieces together.” Jekyll huddles like from a blow that's not about to happen – but now they are surrounded, and much later they will be left alone, and amusing yourself with the thought that everything will cost little blood is pointless. “How did you repay me?” he hisses. “Locking in a prison of your mind?”

Henry wants to rest. Really-really. Henry wants to curl up in a ball on a bed or on the floor and cry to exhaustion, and then fall asleep and be asleep as long as possible.

“You want out?” he asks wearily, ready to give up.

Hyde smirks.

“I want to play.”

✞

They are alone.

Henry shuts the question “where is your previous body” far, far away, for as the Snake said a minute ago he – is a spoiled dirty whore, created to swing his hips – and to his burning shame, Henry does feel this way. Now Edward looks like him, moves like him, and sounds like him – only light, unique echoes of his own heard – and all this makes Jekyll's breath go astray as soon as he's kissed. First, gently. Preparingly. Then – roughly.

Henry chokes on blood from his bitten lip and tries to pull away, but strong and absolutely non-transparent hands pull him back.

Edward wants to play, Henry thinks.

Better to play by his rules.

“I missed you.” Laughs the green-eyed demon, pushing him onto the bed. The doctor sits down, nervously runs his eyes around the room, blinks away the approaching tears of despair (nowhere to run), and takes a deep breath. “The curve of your back. Your moans. Your pain.”

Pain. Of course, it's pain, Jekyll thinks distantly, dreaming of being embraced.

Click – and from an old wardrobe, Hyde takes out a worn leather belt, weighing it on his hands. It's been lying there for quite a time, and sometimes Henry thinks that if looking closely, one can probably notice bloodstains on it. He doesn't look closely. And now, too. He just turns away, not wanting to see what follows. But then his lips get burned by the blow of another's palm, and it's impossible not to see now.

“Did not you miss me?” asks his creation with false amazement and grabs his throat, pressing on it with nails, strangling it, leaving small scratches. Henry looks up with tears piling somewhere in the corners of his eyes and catches an almost caring glance in return.

“If you cry, you'll spoil all our fun, sweetheart, don't you think?” so he nods, despite the burning sensation in his lungs. “Clever boy.”

Hyde leans closer, sucking in a new kiss, loosening his grip. His free hand travels down Jekyll's shirt, tearing buttons in an impatient impulse. A minute later, he topples Jekyll onto the bed, bare back to cold sheets; and tilts his head. Henry's skin seems to be on fire under appreciative eyes. He seems to be on fire, wanting and denying what is about to happen.

He really wants, after all this time filled with torture and nightmares, Edward to do as he always did when the doctor was lost in stress – sit next to him, kissing his neck and digging his thin, long fingers into his hair. He also wants Edward to fuck him into the mattress until Henry loses his voice. And he wants Edward to make it really hurt.

The latter, in the end, overpowers. So he spreads his hips without the slightest indication from the side.

It amuses Edward.

“What an obedient baby,” he purrs, bending over and stroking the doctor's cheek. His own clothes accurately reflect Jekyll's: a ridging shirt with a crumpled jacket and trousers swelling with a bulge. Henry looks away from his Snake, embarrassingly biting his cheek. Oh God. He wants him. “Ready to serve himself to me on a gilded plate. Hah.” The warmth of his smile turns into a grin, and it's not that Henry didn't expect it – in the end, he knew Hyde wanted to punish him – but a sharp realization still knocks the soul out of him. “So predictable. You thought I'll forgive you for your pretty eyes, sweetheart?”

Something seethes, foams and soars behind him in a single voice, chaos wrapping around the bed legs like a parasite. Henry knows that he has signed up for it; repeating that he had no real choice, which is, most probably, true. He should not have ignored the Potion for so long, he should not have postponed the promised solution of their situation night after night, he should not have enclosed by a wall of endless worries. Knew there would be consequences. Didn't prepare himself for them.

And now it's too late.

Now vile, viscous arms of a tentacle-like creature cling to his arms; his legs fixed with their tenacious grip – it doesn't hurt, to some extent even tickles; but Jekyll wants to puke. Edward stares at him with impatience that lights up deep in his pupils. His fingers lead invisible patterns on his Creator's bare chest – he still hasn't gotten free of his own clothes but nods carelessly towards Henry's trousers, and hundreds of thin nightmarish vines crawl there. Jekyll twitches – not expecting it from himself – swallows saliva and looks at his alter ego.

Tsk.

“I need to punish such a naughty boy.” Not-Him leans over and gently kisses his chin. “So he'll remember it for a long, long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myyyy [tumblr](https://moon-hedgehog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/moon_hedgehog) ♡


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